


I've Got a Dark Alley and a Bad Idea That Says You Should Shut Your Mouth

by rubygirl29



Series: Love, Loss, Hope, Repeat [4]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Exhaustion, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Wishful Thinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 21:31:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/944877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jasper Sitwell and Maria Hill are in love, but they don't know it. Clint, however, knows all the symptoms. He suffers from them himself. </p><p>In which <i>churros</i>, nightmares, and the ninja powers of Phil Coulson play a part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've Got a Dark Alley and a Bad Idea That Says You Should Shut Your Mouth

**Author's Note:**

> I intended this to be longer, but RL is going to get hectic for the next two weeks. I decided to post as is and hopefully the next part will make up for it. No schedule for posting it however. So sorry.
> 
> Marvel owns the characters. I own only my words.

Clint is lying prone on a rooftop. A bead of sweat scrawls down his cheek, but he doesn't twitch. He's done this before. He has a desert cammo bandanna tied around his forehead, and it's stained with perspiration. The sun his hot on the back of his neck, even with the protection of another bandanna soaked in cold water, which is now tepid and clammy. His scope is fixed on the courtyard below him where Jasper Sitwell is waiting for a contact to show up with a flash drive. Clint doesn't know what's on the drive; that's above his pay grade. His job is to keep Sitwell safe. 

Surprisingly, he's come to like and respect Sitwell. At first, he thought the agent was trying too hard to be a Phil Coulson clone; right down to the dark blue suit and deadpan manner. He's since come to the conclusion that Sitwell is like Coulson, not out of imitation, but just because he was born that way. He likes Sitwell's dry humor, his imperturbable demeanor, his disregard for his own safety. 

Then there is that _thing_ he has for Maria Hill that Clint finds both amusing and pathetic. He has this crazy, protective impulse to offer advice because Sitwell is clearly in need of some support in his sad pursuit of the unapproachable Maria Hill. 

"So, Sitwell," he says over the comms, certain that their channel is secure. "How's that thing going with Hill?"

_This is not the time or the place, Barton. Cease and desist._

"Come on, Jasper. It's hotter 'n Hell up here and I'm getting bored. You should ask her out, give her flowers, send her a Goddamn Hallmark card."

_You're giving me relationship advice? Don't think I haven't seen you looking --_

"Shut up, Sitwell -- I mean be quiet. Contact approaching from the east. Are you ready?"

_Affirmative_

Clint hopes Sitwell wasn't going to say, what Clint _thought_ he was going to say. He didn't stare at Coulson, did he? That thought is pushed out of his mind as the target is acquired. Clint scans the alley, sees two more hot spots on his display.

"Sitwell!" he hisses. "We're not alone."

He sees the flicker of Jasper's eyelids as he acknowledges the message. Jasper is armed, but he can't draw his weapon with the skittish contact in sight. Clint can't risk a shot until the drive is passed to Sitwell. Talk about a rock and a hard place. Clint sets his zero to the first target and waits. 

He watches Sitwell, sees the contact hand him something and clap him on the shoulder. To Clint's horror, Sitwell's eyes go wide and he crumples to the ground. Clint takes aim. Three shots. Three kills. Three more into his ledger. Right now, he doesn't think about that. He's focused on Jasper lying still on the pavement. He rappels down to the ground and runs over to Jasper. His eyes are closed, showing white under the lids. His pulse is thready, and Clint doesn't know if he's anesthetized or poisoned.

"Agent down!" he speaks urgently into his comms. "Request immediate assistance, as in right now you fuckers!" He starts CPR on Jasper. "Don't you quit on me, Sitwell!" It feels like he's been doing this forever, even though his internal clock is telling him that just a few scant minutes have passed until the S.H.I.E.L.D. extraction team arrives. Clint gratefully hands Jasper over to the medics, who rush him away in a van. Clint is picked up a few minutes later, the flash drive handed over to Agent Woo, while a second medic checks Clint's vitals. He moves away impatiently. "I'm fine," he argues but he doesn't turn down the bottle of electrolyte water that the medic presses into his hand. 

Back at S.H.I.E.L.D., he stops at the armory to drop off his rifle and strip off his field suit, showering quickly and changing into his jeans and a clean shirt. He knows he should debrief with Coulson, but he needs to know if Jasper is all right. He isn't alone. Phil and Maria are in the waiting area. That Coulson would be there isn't a surprise, but that Hill would be sitting next to him, her fingers laced tightly together and looking more shaken than Clint thought possible, that's an eye-opener. 

"How is he?" Clint asks.

"Those fuckers poisoned him!" Hill's voice drips anger and acid. "How did you let that --"

"Maria!" Phil stops her. "Nobody, not even Hawkeye, could have seen a syringe at that distance."

Maria looks up at Clint. "I apologize, Agent Barton."

Clint shakes his head. "I wish I had."

They look up at once when the door opens and the doctor emerges. "He'll be all right. The poison is one we've encountered before and keep the antidote in stock. Agent Sitwell will feel like he's had the flu for a few days, but after that, he'll be as good as new. Nice work in the field, Agent Barton. You saved his life."

Clint wishes Sitwell could see the tinge of color on Hill's cheekbones. She looks at the doctor. "Can we see him?"

"One at a time. He's pretty groggy, might not make much sense."

"I'm not going to interrogate him," Hill says with that wry acidity she uses to disguise her emotions. 

"Of course. Come with me."

Hill's straight back doesn't show any weakness as she follows the doctor. Clint scrubs his eyes. "I hope they have Sitwell on the good drugs."

"Why?"

"Come on, Coulson. You've seen the way he looks at her with those puppy-dog eyes."

"He's a wounded hero. He'll be fine."

"If I were in love ..." He stops, takes a breath. "Not the same thing. Never mind." He looks around, his eyes trying not to linger on Coulson's. "You know what? I'm hungry."

Coulson just looks at him with a raised brow. "Company?"

"You're the boss." Clint shrugs and hopes he isn't blushing or looking at Coulson with his own version of puppy-dog eyes. He takes off at a clip that Coulson should be hard-pressed to keep up. No such luck. The man is in top shape; maybe Clint can blame his own breathlessness on the near sprint through the halls. 

"You know the mess is open 24/7," Coulson says mildly. 

"Yeah, but get there after 8pm and the macaroni and cheese is like a chunk of wood, the slices of meat are like shoe leather, and the pie crusts taste like wet cardboard." 

By then he's in the line and poking at the tray of mac and cheese. He grimaces and moves on to wonton soup and corn muffins that haven't turned to rocks, yet. He's about to reach for an slightly shriveled apple when Coulson stops him.

"Come on, Barton. Let's find a restaurant. What would you like?"

"Anything that doesn't taste like sawdust and cardboard." 

"I know a place."

Coulson's place is a small Mexican cafe that seems completely out of place tucked between two tall buildings with a mournful neon sombrero in the window. As soon as Phil opens the door, Clint nearly swoons at the aromas coming from inside. "Damn, Coulson ... " he breathes. 

"It tastes even better. Homemade tamales are my weakness." 

They order a big plate of tamales to share. chicken enchiladas _mole_ , flan and _churros_. Clint thinks he's gone to heaven. He knows Coulson is watching him and he hasn't the pride to care if his handler sees the blissed-out look on his face. It's not like Coulson doesn't have crystals of sugar and cinnamon at the corner of his mouth ... which Clint finds totally and inappropriately hot. He looks down at the remnants of churro on his plate, veiling his expression with his lashes until he has a firmer hold on his emotions. "Thank you."

"I have to take care of my assets. You looked like you needed food, and not the poor excuse for sustenance offered by S.H.I.E.L.D."

Clint lifts his shoulder. "I've had worse."

"That's the point. In the field, we take what we can get, I know how that is, but when you're not on point you need to take care of your body and your mind the same way you take care of your weapons." 

Coulson is so earnest that Clint has to smile. "Yes, sir."

"It's not an order, just an observation." 

He pulls out his credit card and takes care of the bill. Back at S.H.I.E.L.D., Coulson walks him to his quarters. Clint can't resist batting his lashes at Coulson. "Aww, sir. You're such a gentleman to see me to my door."

"Barton, go to sleep."

"Are you?"

"Haven't you heard? I don't sleep." 

"I've heard you're a robot, sir. I don't believe that, either." Clint ducks inside his door and closes it, his heart beating faster than it should. He wanted to lean in and kiss the last bit of sugar from Coulson's lips, he wants to pull him inside and tug off the silk tie ... he wants too many things he can't have. It will be better tomorrow, he tells himself. He's a liar. This _thing_ with Coulson isn't fading. It's just another line item in his ledger of things he can never have. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Clint doesn't like pistol practice, but he knows he has to keep his skills sharp. Once a week he goes to the gun range, as mandated in his contract. Sitwell, pale death warmed over, is at the lane next to his. He looks too weak to hold a weapon. "You know, range practice doesn't go so well when you're too shaking like a leaf in the wind," Clint says conversationally as he pulls on his shooting gloves. 

"So move to another range if you think I'm going to shoot you."

"I didn't say that." He loads his weapon, puts on his safety glasses and ear protection. He steps up and fires easily, the target is riddled with a tight ring of holes in the chest. He pauses and reloads. "AD Hill was in to see you," Clint watches Sitwell. 

"Standard debrief."

"Yeah, right. You weren't in any shape for that." 

Sitwell just gives him a _look_ and settles his head gear. He's biting his lip in his effort to held the gun steady. It's a Sig-Sauer, it really isn't all that heavy. He raises his arm and it's like his muscles are wet noodles. 

"For fuck's sake, Sitwell." Clint reaches over and plucks the weapon from Jasper's hand. "You know they have cameras in here. If Hill sees you trying to shoot when you're not fit to lift anything heavier than a spoon of chicken soup, she'll be _so_ disillusioned. Leave her with the picture of you as the wounded hero. Much more impressive."

"You're an asshole, Barton."

"You're just realizing that now?" 

Sitwell strips off his glove and sets his ear protection down. "Can I have my gun back, Agent Barton?"

"Yes, sir." He passes the weapon over. 

"You won't tell AD Hill that I'm an idiot?"

"No, sir. But I'm not responsible if she thinks you are one."

Jasper just mutters an obscenity under his breath and leaves Clint alone on the range, which is really all Clint wanted, after all. He decorates the next target with a heart-shaped ring of bullet holes. He moves on to the archery range and shoots for an hour there; the spars with two of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s security guards. They've trained like Special Forces and give Clint more of a workout than sparring with his fellow agents. Not that they spar with him -- not after two weeks of utter humiliation by Clint's superior skills.

When he's showered and had a protein drink, he finds himself wandering down the corridor to Phil's office. He knocks softly, peers inside. Empty, but the computer's screen saver is on, so he's probably not far. Clint takes advantage of Coulson's absence by wandering around the office.

He picks up a plexiglass display case with a baseball autographed by the 1961 New York Yankees. Next to it is a photograph of three young men stripped to the waist in the desert heat, including a young, ripped Coulson. They're standing by a banner of the 1st Ranger battalion. Must be during the first Gulf War. He takes a moment to appreciate Coulson's lean frame and the smooth skin, tanned and warm-looking. Clint knows that skin is marred by scars, now. The eyes have deeper lines around them, and are more tired and sympathetic. Clint sighs and puts the photo down. This is not helping him deal with his growing attraction for his handler. 

He lies down on the couch, his head pillowed on his arms. It feels good to be horizontal. Clint hasn't slept well since the op, and it's wearing on him physically. He doesn't intend to fall asleep, but he drifts off. He sleeps better on Phil's couch than he does in his quarters where nightmares lurk in every shadowed corner. He doesn't wake until the light footfalls he knows are Phil's rouse him. Feigning sleep, he watches Coulson take of his jacket, his tie, his horn-rimmed glasses. He rubs his eyes and turns off his desk lamp, leaving the only illumination the screen saver on his monitor. 

He does something that Clint doesn't expect. He stands for a moment looking down at Clint before he reaches over and shakes out the afghan he keeps on the back of the couch and tugs it over Clint's shoulders. Clint nearly startles when Coulson's fingers smooth over his hair lightly, but Clint is well-trained and doesn't twitch despite the warmth the gesture brings to the space behind his heart. He can't imagine what it means; if Coulson is merely kind, if he thinks Clint can't take care of himself, or if there is another richer motive ... which makes Clint's chest hurt with longing. 

The moment passes and Coulson puts on his well-tailored trench coat -- black naturally -- and leaves his office, closing the door quietly. Clint waits for the count of five before he's off the couch and down the hall. He is being a total, creepy stalker, but he can't help it; his curiosity about Coulson is becoming an obsession. 

He takes the steps down to the garage and waits as Coulson's S.H.I.E.L.D. issue sedan purrs down the ramp. For once, Clint is thankful that Coulson left Lola at home; he has a chance of tailing Coulson in this car. He starts up his bike and wheels out of the garage, keeping a distance between his bike and the sedan.

It's not far to Coulson's apartment. He's confident in his ability to tail Phil. Clint remembers the way, mapped in his mind as he's always been able to do, even when he loses sight of Phil temporarily, he catches up to him easily. Phil has outdoor parking for his staff car, and a secure indoor spot for the 'vette, Lola. Clint slots his bike into a barely legal space in the shadows between two buildings and watches Phil as he takes out his briefcase and locks the car. 

Clint lounges against the brick wall. Now that he's here, he doesn't know what to do with himself. He doesn't want Coulson to see him, he doesn't want to leave. He doesn't know why he's here, not really. Loneliness, curiosity, something else he doesn't want to think about? He tells himself he a fool and is about to walk his bike back to the main road when Coulson's lights go out and he emerges, setting off at a brisk walk down the street. He's changed out of his suit into jeans and sweater worn under a scarred and supple leather jacket. Now, Clint is intrigued. Nobody ever thinks that the imperturbable Agent Coulson has a life outside of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Clint follows him at a distance until Coulson enters what looks like a neighborhood dive bar. Clint waits a few minutes to see if Coulson will emerge, and when he doesn't, Clint slips inside the bar and into a corner, watching. It's what he does best next to shooting -- vanishing into the background and observing a subject. 

Coulson leans against the bar and orders a beer. The jukebox is playing a mix of honky-tonk blues that is oddly soothing. Three men are at the billiard table are smoking in blatant disregard of the notices on the wall. Nobody seems to mind the miasma of blue smoke curling lazily in the lights as they move around the table. 

"Barton, what are you doing here?" 

Coulson, the fucking ninja, appears at his elbow. Clint isn't as surprised as he should be by this. "Following you." 

"Why?"

Clint knows he's blushing. "Insatiable curiosity?" 

"I think I may need another beer," Coulson's smile is gentle. 

"Make that two," Clint sighs and follows Phil to the bar. They sit next to each other, hands wrapped around sweating bottles. 

"So, insatiable curiosity?"

"That's my story and I'm sticking to it."

Phil laughs, the crinkles around his eye fanning out, his smile radiating warmth. Clint nearly falls off the barstool from the close-range impact on his heart. _Oh, fuck. I am so fucked._ He hopes Coulson can't see that. He drinks his beer and looks at their reflections in the mirror over the bottles of liquor. When he drains his bottle, he sets it down. "Well, see you around, boss."

"Your curiosity is that easily sated?"

Clint sighs. "You're a regular guy out for a beer." It isn't much of an answer. He puts a five dollar bill on the bar and leaves. Sort of. He walks back to Coulson's place and waits in the dark alley for Phil to return. Eventually, a lone figure walks up to the apartment building. Phil tilts his head up to the sky, the streetlights falling on his unmistakable profile. Clint aches from his heart to his groin with a heavy longing. He presses deeper into the alley; the bricks cold against his back and rough against his palms. Despite the darkness, he feels exposed, every nerve thrumming and alive. 

His cell phone vibrates against his thigh, startling him. He looks at the text. _Either come inside or go home. Your choice._

Clint is paralyzed. Caught between what he wants and what he should do, stunned that Coulson has given him a choice. It takes a while, but he finally peels his spine away from the wall and takes a tentative step out of the shadows. Coulson is standing on the apartment steps. 

Clint tries to be casual as he walks over to Phil. "Is that an invitation?"

Phil mouth curves into an enigmatic smile. "Do you want it to be?"

Of course, he does, but his mouth is too dry for him to speak. He nods and Coulson waits for him to take a step, before he does, so that they're walking side by side without Clint trailing him like a smitten teenager. He would love the man for that alone. 

Phil opens the door and they ride up to his seventh floor apartment. Clint follows him inside. The room is warm and welcoming as it has always been. "Have a seat," Phil invites quietly. "How about a drink, something a little more warming than beer?"

"Okay." Now that he's here, on Phil's couch, he's exhausted. He takes the glass of whiskey from Phil. "I'm sorry."

Phil eases down into his recliner. "For?"

"Following you. Invading your privacy. You name it."

"There has to be a reason, Barton. I know you well enough to understand that." He leans forward. "Barton, talk to me."

Clint looks down at the whisky and takes a swallow for dutch courage. He won't tell Coulson everything, not the _real_ reason he followed him, but enough of the truth that Phil might understand. "I've been having nightmares. I can't sleep in my room. I wake up and I'm crawling on the floor. It's an old dream, but this time it's Sitwell who's dying, or you, sir. And I - I can't ... It will go away," he tells Coulson, hoping to convince him that he really isn't crazy and wondering if he is.

"There are people you can talk to about this."

"Yeah, like the shrinks at Walter Reid. A lot of good they did." He assumes Coulson has read his medical files. 

"Our people are better. As an asset you need to be in top shape, which means eating and sleeping, not just going to the range. We've had this conversation before."

Clint feels like a chastised teenager. "Yes, sir. I should get back to headquarters."

"Will you sleep?"

Clint shrugs. "Probably not, but I'm sorry I messed up your evening."

Coulson touches his knee. "Stay. The guest room is open."

"Sir ... I'll just ... I like the couch."

"There's a toothbrush in the bathroom. You know where the towels are."

Clint forces himself off the couch and down the hall. When he's finished, he finds a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt on the floor. He changes, folds his clothes, puts his battered boots in the corner and returns to the living room. There are pillows and a blanket on the couch. Phil's bedroom door is closed. Clint turns off the lights. The ambient city light leaks in through the blinds. Clint wraps himself in Phil's soft blanket and closes his eyes. The only sound is the quiet compressor of the air conditioning. 

He falls asleep, and for the first time in days, doesn't dream.


End file.
